


Trials and Tribulations

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Doctor Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen Work, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Platonic Cuddling, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Time War Angst, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 21:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13532631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: The Doctor attempts to deal with the aftermath of facing a war tribunal.





	Trials and Tribulations

The Doctor shut the TARDIS door softly and turned the lock, hand lingering on the knob. He stared at the wooden panels for a moment, as if seeing right through them, before his hand fell to his side and he turned away, eyes downcast.

He didn't know what to make of what had just happened. His chest felt empty, hollowed out, his hands trembled despite his best efforts to still them. Old, awful things stirred in his mind, thoughts and feelings and memories he had tried so hard to bury. Hatred—not for the members of the tribunal outside the doors, though, never—burned in his hearts, and he had that uncontrollable urge to run, just get away from all of it.

"Are you okay?"

Glancing briefly upwards, he saw Donna standing by the console, brows knit with concern.

"Fine," he muttered. Skin prickling under her unrelenting gaze, he strode to the centre of the room and busied himself at the controls.

She sighed, patient, but unwilling to play along. "You don't have to lie."

He threw a lever down, decidedly harder than necessary, and the engines started up their wheezing as they fled the planet. "I'm not," he gritted out.

"Yes, you are. Doctor, I know you don't want to discuss it, I know. I understand. But that was just… that was…"

"No big deal," he finished for her. He didn't meet her eyes. He couldn't see how she was looking at him. "It's over now."

Donna fell silent, clearly searching for something to say that would get him to talk. But before she could find it, he was hurrying out of the room, tossing his overcoat onto the jumpseat as he went.

"Doctor– wait!" she called.

"Just got a few repairs to see to, I'll be in the engine room!"

"Oh, you know I don't know where that is!"

The door slid closed behind him, cutting off any further protest from her. It wouldn't have mattered whether she could find the engine room or not; he wouldn't be there. Desperate to be alone, to find any sort of solace, he made his way through the twisting hallways to his bedroom and shut himself inside.

Every last bit of resolve seemed to leave him as soon as the door was closed, and his head fell back against the cold metal, eyes squeezed shut. He pressed a hand over his mouth and gasped a shaky breath, letting it out as a sob as tears welled in his eyes. The emptiness inside him was suddenly gone, choked out by the rush of emotions that overcame him, and he found he preferred the former. The horrible ache of grief spread through his chest, pressing the air from his lungs. But the judges had been right: he had no right to feel it. It was his fault, all his fault. He didn't get to miss them.

The trial—that _bloody_ trial—replayed in his head, unbidden. He felt again the panic and terror of reliving the War in explicit, excruciating detail, the shame, the guilt. Like he was still there, under the horrified stares of a hundred judges. And Donna.

He wished to every god there was that he'd left her on Earth for this one. It was the utmost humiliation for him, to have her shown all of that. She was the reason he'd broken out; if he had stayed and allowed them to go through with his execution, she would have been stranded there, if not tried as his accomplice. But now she was safe, he could do what he liked without fear of hurting her.

Shrugging off his suit jacket, the Doctor hurried over to a small nightstand, letting himself fall to his knees on the floor. He dug through the top drawer until his fingers found a razor blade and he sat down, slumped back against his bed, and rolled up his sleeve with his arm rested in his lap. Raised white scars crossed his wrist, remnants of past days like this one, when he couldn't stop thinking about things. A shiver of revulsion ran through him; it was so much less than he deserved.

With shaking hands he pressed the blade to his upper wrist, hard, and drew it quickly across. Pain stabbed through his arm, white-hot and burning, and he couldn't stop himself from gasping out loud as he screwed his eyes shut. When he came back to his senses, blood was running in rivulets down his wrist, pooling on the floor. He knew right away that the wound was deep. He had never gone this far before. It scared him.

But it didn't stop him from cutting himself again, and again, until his whole forearm was sticky with blood. And when he ran out of room, he rolled up his other sleeve and did it all again.

Hearts pounding, breaths coming in gasps, he dropped the blade and stared at what he'd done. He was seriously bleeding. He wasn't sure the gashes would close on their own. And if they didn't…

A stab of fear hit him. Suddenly, he was faced with the very real possibility that he could bleed to death then and there. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Not entirely, at least. But he didn't plan on leaving his room to get the first aid kit, and he certainly couldn't ask Donna for help. There was no way he would let himself regenerate, if it did come to that; just considering the possibility caused him another pang of guilt.

 _Que sera, sera_ , then. Whatever would happen, would happen. And that was okay, he told himself, even as he buried his head in his hands and broke down in tears. That was right. Still less than he deserved.

Then he heard footsteps outside, and a rap at his door.

"Doctor? Are y– Oh," said Donna, as the door slid open automatically.

He heard her breath catch as she saw him on the floor beside his bed, knees drawn up to his chest, hands covering his face. She stepped hesitantly into the room. He didn't look up.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know the door would…" She trailed off. "What's that on your shirt?"

A sob shook his shoulders, and she moved closer.

"Is that blood? Are you hurt?" she asked, voice rising in concern. Kneeling next to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to get a closer look at the dark stains on the front of his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Donna, I'm so sorry."

"What do you mean? Doctor, is– is that blood?"

He knew he should be making an excuse, covering it up like he always did. At that moment, he just didn't care. He didn't care what she saw. He didn't care if she thought he was a coward. All he wanted was to hurt.

Wordlessly, he let his arms fall away from his face, resting his head back against the mattress to stare at the adjacent wall. Donna inhaled sharply, covering her mouth with one hand.

"Oh my God," she breathed. "Doctor…"

He let his eyes fall closed, brow furrowed, a fresh wave of guilt washing over him. This wasn't right. She shouldn't have to bother with him.

"You can just go," he rasped, a tremor in his voice. "I'm fine. You don't have to look after me."

She was silent for a moment, struggling to process it all. Then the urgency of the situation seemed to hit her, and she took his bloodied hands in hers and rested his arms on his knees, above his hearts.

"Doctor, you have got to tell me," she said firmly, "where can I find medical supplies?"

He didn't answer right away. It was such a tempting possibility to refuse. Without his direction, he knew that Donna would not be able to fix up his wounds. From the look of some of them, blood streaming in pulses with his heartbeats…

"Please…" Her voice trembled, and she wiped a tear from her cheek. "Doctor, I am begging you, just tell me. It– it looks really bad."

The terror in her tone brought him to his senses. He couldn't kill himself in front of her. He could never hurt her like that.

"Console room," he whispered. "There's a compartment under the jumpseat with a first aid kit."

He couldn't decide whether Donna was resisting giving him a hug or a slap. She settled for squeezing his shoulder. "Will you be alright for a sec while I get it?" she asked.

He nodded, raising a shaking hand to his face to dry his cheeks. "Promise."

As she was about to get up, she noticed the dull glint of the razor blade where it had fallen next to him. Hesitating, she picked it up gingerly, unsure what else to do but get it away from the Doctor. She stood, hand lingering on his arm, and hurried out of the room.

The moment she left, a surge of anguish came over him. Letting one leg slip to the ground, he curled in on himself, hands threaded through his hair, and sobbed. He felt even worse, if possible, knowing that he had let her see him like this. He'd scared her. He was supposed to be taking care of her, watching over her, not the other way around.

When Donna came back not a minute later, he tried to calm herself, with little success. His gasps and whimpers filled the silence as she busied herself unpacking the small tin.

"Can you tell me how to use this stuff?" she asked quietly, as if afraid to intrude upon his thoughts.

"Sure. Yeah, sure." He sniffed. "There's a– a small rectangular device. It's for closing over a wound. Just hit the red button press the end to the… the cuts."

She gave him a weak smile, and did as he instructed. Pain shot through him the second the device touched his skin, and he couldn't bite back a cry of pain.

"No, it's fine," he said through gritted teeth, as Donna went to pull away. "It's supposed to do that."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes."

Doubtful, Donna moved the device over the worst of the gashes, and they knit themselves together as if closed by invisible stitches. It was a long and painful process, but when she finished they were all reasonably healed, looking more like days-old wounds now, none bleeding more than a few little droplets. By the end, the Doctor was shaking like a leaf, barely able to keep still enough for her to finish. It wasn't the pain so much as the panic and embarrassment. And blood loss.

"Did I do it right?" she asked, looking him over with wide, concerned eyes.

He nodded.

"You're covered in blood."

Shame bringing a flush to his cheeks, he looked down at his hands.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up." She stood up and offered him a hand. "Can you stand?"

Drawing a shuddering breath, he took her hand and used the bed frame to push himself to his feet. Immediately, he was hit by a wave of dizziness, and he instinctively grabbed Donna's shoulder to keep from falling back down. He had lost more blood than he thought.

"I'm fine," he muttered, swaying on his feet as Donna gripped his arm to steady him. His vision went a bit spotty around the edges, but he recovered quickly.

Clearly resisting the urge to retort, she led him to the en suite. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he looked away quickly and hopped up to sit on the sink counter; his dress shirt was stained red all down the front where his arms had been pressed against him, the edges of his rolled-up sleeves soaked with blood. There were smears of it on his face and neck. The image stuck with him even after he turned away. That was how Donna saw him.

Donna took a cloth from a hangar and soaked it in warm water, rinsing the blood from her hands. She held his hand in hers and cleaned it carefully, pausing before she moved on to his wrist.

"Is it alright if I…"

He was quiet for a long moment, before he nodded slowly.

Her hands were trembling ever so slightly as she wiped the blood from his forearms. Though the cuts themselves were painless now, he flinched as she touched them, breath hitching in his throat.

She stopped after one arm to rinse out the cloth. "I'm really sorry, Doctor," she murmured. "I had no idea. I shouldn't have left you alone, that was such an awful thing for them to do to you."

His lower lip trembled, and he rubbed his hand over his face. "'S not your fault. They were right."

She looked to him in surprise. "No, they weren't. Of course they weren't."

For a moment he met her gaze, eyes dark and mournful, and then returned to staring at his hands.

Donna set down the cloth and went to stand in front of him, taking his hands in hers. "They were wrong, and you know it. You…" She took a deep breath, and let it out as a sigh. "You're suffering in a way I can't pretend to understand, and I am very, very sorry for what you've been through. But you aren't to blame for it. I know the story. You saved the universe." She laughed. "Again! I mean… I know you would never have done it if there was any other option. And I think it was bloody awful of them to try you for that."

He sniffed, tears springing up all over again. "Maybe you're right," he whispered. "But… it still hurts." His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. "It hits me sometimes. My planet is gone. My people are dead. It's just me now."

_I'm alone._

Though he didn't say it, Donna knew exactly what he meant. "Oh, Doctor. It's never been just you."

"That's not the same!" he cried. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, fighting to regain control. "I'm sorry. I– I don't mean… It's not the same. It's just not."

"I know. It's okay to miss them. But…" A hint of fear tinged her voice. "Oh, God… You are so far from alone. You have so many people who care about you, and– and love you, and would never, ever want to see you hurt. Or hurting. You must know that!" she whispered.

"Yeah." The Doctor wiped away a tear with a shaking hand, and sniffed. "I know."

Donna shut her eyes for a moment. He could tell she was steeling herself for whatever came next.

"Can I ask you something?"

What could he do to stop her?

"Yes."

"Did–" She swallowed. "Were you… were you trying to– I mean, you were hurt really bad. I just… I need to know whether you meant–"

"To kill myself," he finished quietly. "I didn't. I didn't mean to hurt myself so badly. S'pose I might as well have, though. Not like I tried to stop it."

Donna pressed a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. Feeling an awful stab of guilt, the Doctor drew her closer and hugged her tightly against him. She grasped at the fabric of his shirt as if terrified he would disappear if she let go, her body shaking as she cried into his shoulder.

"Oh… I'm sorry," he whispered. "Donna, I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, I just thought… I knew you'd get on without me, and–"

She was shaking her head. "Don't you dare," she scolded, "don't you dare say that. You think I'd just move on from that? Just forget about you and go back to Earth and live a normal life?"

"No, no, you're right," he muttered. "Stupid of me."

"Yeah," she said. But there was no anger behind her words. Only fear.

The Doctor sighed. "You are right, though. I shouldn't have done it. And I'm sorry."

"Well, you don't have to apologize," she mumbled. "I should be apologizing to you. I didn't know–" She sniffed. "I didn't know it hit you so hard."

"No, it's not your fault."

"I should have known, I could've–"

"No," he cut her off, his voice quiet and calming. He reached up to stroke her hair, letting her tire herself out. Then it really hit him: if Donna hadn't come, he would probably be dead right now. He would never have gotten to hold her again. He wouldn't be there to comfort her. Far from it—he would have caused her so much pain. Unbidden, an image formed in his mind of her shaking his bloodied body, trying to wake him up, and suddenly he found that he was the one crying in her arms.

"Hey, easy there." Donna wiped her cheeks, partially disentangling herself to meet his eyes. "What is it?" she asked softly.

"I want–" He broke off, and took a shuddering breath. "I want to thank you. For coming to find me. I made a mistake, and you– you saved my life, again, and I'm really grateful. I don't know what I did to deserve you, Donna, honestly. And I'm sorry I scared you. It'll never happen again."

"It'd better not," she said weakly. "And it's not me you should be thanking. The TARDIS told me where you were, said I should go."

He looked at her, and gave a faint smile. "Really? Well, that's just like her, always interfering." Letting his eyes fall closed for a moment, he said, "You both deserve more thanks than I could ever give."

She hugged him tighter, and he hid his face in the crook of her neck, committing every detail of the moment to memory. Right then, for just a moment, he felt all his problems melt away. He was just happy to be alive.

After a while, she pulled back and fetched the washcloth to finish cleaning up all the blood. The Doctor didn't flinch this time as she tenderly washed off his arm, then cleaned the smudges from his face. His wrists were red and swollen around the closed wounds, and it made them dreadfully sore, but at least he was no longer bleeding. He slid down from the counter and, briefly resting a hand on Donna's arm, left to change out of his blood-soaked shirt. The TARDIS seemed to have cleaned the blood from the floor by his bed, and he sent her his silent thanks. She hummed a mental response, a shaky sound of relief.

When he returned, wearing a pair of deep blue pyjamas, Donna sat him on the bed and gave him a crushing hug, which he returned with just as much vigour.

"How're you feeling?" she asked quietly.

He gave a soft sigh. "Better, thanks to you. Still… still upset. Scared. Guilty. But better."

"I'm glad." Glancing up at him, she said, "I don't want to leave you alone. Not again. I know you like your space, but I can't do it. I'd be too scared for you."

"You don't have to look after me," he said. But at her pained look, he relented. "But if you really don't mind staying, I would appreciate it."

If he were to be completely honest with himself, the idea of being alone right then scared him too. He was doing better—he hadn't lied—but he also hadn't lied about the fact that he had further to go. The events of that day weren't something he could just forget. But he figured he could eventually move past it. Especially with Donna at his side.

"Course I don't mind, you plum." Donna drew back, hand remaining on his arm. "You should get some rest. It's been a long day. You look exhausted."

The Doctor gave a quiet laugh. "I feel exhausted," he admitted.

"No surprises there," she remarked, crawling onto the bed and flopping back against the multitude of pillows. Her voice softened. "C'mere."

A little shakily, he lay on his back beside her and crossed his ankles, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She moved closer to him and laid her head on his chest, placing her hand over the steady beat of his hearts. A wave of gratitude came over him. He couldn't have asked for a better best friend.

"Doctor?" Donna murmured.

"Hmm?"

"I'm really glad you're alright."

The Doctor felt tears prick at his eyes. "Me too."

"I'm always here for you, y'know."

"I know," he whispered. "Thank you."

She sighed. "Love you, spaceman."

"Love you, Donna."


End file.
